


Yet, the War Drums Still Beat

by Silver_setting_sun



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Class Issues, Friendship, Gen, Gladiators, Introspection, Lost Love, M/M, Megatron is bad at emotions, Minor Character Death, Murder, Romance, So is Optimus, Survivor Guilt, Torture, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22641430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_setting_sun/pseuds/Silver_setting_sun
Summary: Optimus wouldn’t end the war and Megatron would never think of ending it in anything other than victory. And why should he?No, that wouldn’t do. The dead were climbing up his back, howling and beating the war drums. He could not end it. They wouldn’t let him.
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime, Megatron/Orion Pax
Comments: 16
Kudos: 66





	Yet, the War Drums Still Beat

He stood on the command deck, servos clenched at his side. Orion had regained his memories and gotten away, abandoning him once again. Another failure.

Optimus Prime had returned and he’d left to rally his comrades, left to empower his faction, left with optics burning in rage and betrayal, ready to continue the war.

_Their war_

Megatron’s talons dug into his palms, but he barely noticed the energon running from the fresh wound. 

_A war both sides refused to end without the destruction of the other as their condition_

Optimus wouldn’t end it. Megatron was sure of it. The Decepticons were too much of a threat. Megatron remembered a skirmish for resources a few thousand years ago. Nuavis Ⅳ if he recalled correctly. It’d been the first time in about two centuries that he’d personally entertained the Prime in combat. 

Optimus had been unusually vicious in that battle, carving out Megatron’s right optic and nearly bludgeoning him into stasis. Megatron was fairly sure the brutality stemmed from the destruction of one of Nuavis Ⅳ’s native civilizations. It hadn’t even been on purpose. It turned out, the planet’s natural debris didn’t react well with Cybertronian refinery equipment. The explosion of the Decepticon plant was as accidental as it was deadly.

As Megatron stood, pedes barely keeping him upright, Optimus stared him down, frame shaking in either exhaustion or anger. 

“The Autobots will never stop,” he'd told Megatron. “Freedom is the right of all sentient beings, and no matter how you disregard life, no matter how you kill and torture for conquest, we will be there to set it right.” 

So no, Optimus wouldn’t end the war. The energon dripping from Megatron’s servos landed on the floor in a soft patter. 

_It was like Optimus had forgotten who and what Megatron fought for._

Optimus wouldn’t end the war and Megatron would never think of ending it in anything other than victory. And why should he?

No, that wouldn’t do. The dead were climbing up his back, howling and beating the war drums. He could not end it. They wouldn’t let him.

D-16. He remembers the first and last time he was called by that designation. It was by the same mech, His overseer. A member of the middle caste that thought himself worlds above the low caste miners he managed. 

He’d been a small mech- on the larger side for the upper castes, but tiny in comparison to the frames that occupied the mines. He’d been some obnoxious bright orange color and walked around like he owned the place, electro-whip always in hand. 

Megatron remembered that whip better than he remembered its wielder. The way it shined in the dark of the mine. The slow pulse of blue light it gave off. The crack of it digging into the plating of the disobedient, accompanied by screams and pleads for mercy. The sound of those cracks on his own plating.

 _Crack, crack, crack._ Blending together into a disturbing semblance of laughter at his pain.

The sight of that mech and that whip was the first thing he saw as he onlined into life.

“D-16” his overseer had said, a question and command wrapped into one. The designation registered in his processor, then locked. It was a fact, an absolute. 

D-16. He didn’t think much of the designation for a long time. Everyone had a similar one: D-18, D-232, D-51. They were just parts of their programming, existing only to make communication easier. 

It made sense until the day he met someone different. The mech was large and old. So old, D-16 was surprised the mech still functioned. Cave-ins and chemical eruptions were common. Nobody survived that long down in the mines. 

D-16 was assigned to tunnel-XR45 with the old mech. When D-16 asked for the other’s designation, the old mech said, “Terminus,” with a soft smile.

D-16 frowned in confusion. A designation like that was something only supervisors had, and clearly this mech was not a supervisor. Terminus noticed the bewilderment and chuckled.

“You don’t live as long as I have while being disposable,” he said kindly.

D-16: _disposable_ 16

No longer did D-16 think so little of his designation. And from that point onward, he started having questions. Why do the supervisors look so different? What was on the surface? What determines disobedience? If he onlined before D-5, and many mechs had died before he onlined, were there multiple D-16s?

His overseer answered his questions with cracks from the electro-whip for his “insubordination”. None of the miners wanted to be bothered with the question. None except Terminus: he indulged D-16, listened to him and answered to the best of his ability.

D-16 quite liked Terminus. The other miners joked that the old mech had gotten a second shadow. Terminus laughed at that and D-16 enjoyed the comparison. He talked to Terminus daily, worked with him, even recharged next to him. It was a comfort, a familiarity.

The old mech told him about the few times he’d been to the surface, about buildings, lights and frame types- the place he’d chosen the name, Terminus; D-16 was entranced.

But as he spent more time with Terminus, he found himself in the role of unwanted caretaker. Terminus was old, and with age came, creaks, pains, malfunctions and increased fuel demands. Something the meager rations couldn’t support. 

D-16 found himself massaging bends out of backstruts, helping wash grit out of joints and cogs, and slipping Terminus a portion of his own rations, much to the other mech’s chagrin. 

“It’s ok, I’ll manage,” Terminus told him. For the first time, D-16 didn’t trust the other mech. 

Time passed as an endless drone of routine and work in the dark. Terminus’s fuel demand stayed high, taxing his systems. Even with his added rations, D-16 was unsure how Terminus still operated at such an efficient rate. 

He soon discovered how in the form of two guards dragging a thrashing Terminus into the barracks on his recharge cycle. Following the commotion was D-16’s overseer and a crowd of miners. 

The guards dropped Terminus to the floor. He landed hard, face down, and a guard restrained him with a heavy pede to the back. The crowd formed a circle around them, all trying to see what was happening. The overseer pushed his way to the center of the crowd as D-16 struggled to see. 

“Miners,” The overseer announced. “As you know, we have rules in this place. Rules that keep everyone safe and functioning, and more importantly, keep this mine productive. One of these rules is the amount of energon you are allotted on a timed basis.”

D-16 felt his spark drop

“This useless scrapheap here dared to think he was above the rules. He has stolen more than his fair share and only now has it come to light. The thief has been caught and now, everyone here will learn what happens to those who think they are above the rules!”

With that said, the overseer approached Terminus, whip in hand, and gestured for the guard to step aside. Then began one of the most vicious beatings D-16 would ever see. 

The whip came down again and again, scorching then tearing then rending plating. D-16 watched as his friend shrieked and howled and sobbed. He watched as the weapon tore into his friend’s internal components, maiming them beyond recognition. 

And all the while, his overseer looked calm, satisfied even. The action of torturing a mech for taking fuel that he genuinely needed gave him no pause.

 _Crack, crack, crack_ like laughter. And suddenly, D-16 was faced with the reality that Terminus would die. His old frame wasn’t sturdy enough to endure this abuse, and even if he survived the ordeal, there were no medics down here. The ensuing rust infections and motor relay complications would surely kill him. 

D-16 shoved his way to the front of the crowd and in an impulse of sheer terror, ran forward and hit the overseer. The only thing he registered was the overseer shouting his designation in alarm- the last time he heard it spoken aloud. 

He’d only meant to get him away from Terminus, but as his fists smashed through lightweight plating, D-16 realized his mistake. Energon sprayed, coating D-16 and the mechs up front. The terror faded from his processor, leaving him painfully aware of the scene below him. His overseer lay in a puddle of energon, chest cavity caved in completely, energon still pouring from the hole. 

Beside him lay Terminus, trembling violently as sparks jumped from the mutilation of his back. He vented, once, twice, each hitching, before meeting D-16’s optics. He tried to say something, but his vocalizer glitched.

D-16 reached out an arm towards his friend, but the guards were on him, wrestling him to the ground and slapping on a pair of stasis cuffs. He met Terminus’s optics once more, helm pressed against the ground. 

The old mech gave that soft smile before his optics darkened and his frame stiffened with death. D-16 struggled to inch towards Terminus, but something hard hit his helm, knocking him unconscious. 

Terminus was the first to beat the drums

He awoke in the light. They were harsh and artificial, overwhelming his optics. It was painful and wonderful all at the same time. He was slumped in the corner of a small metal room, stasis cuffs still holding his servos behind his back. 

On the opposite side of the room was a large blocky mech with orange, yellow, and grey plating. He stood, casting occasional glances at D-16 while scrawling something on his datapad. 

The mech then noticed the other was awake. He nodded approvingly. “Usually, they send us the broken ones,” he muttered. 

D-16 held his glossa, hoping the mech would elaborate. Luckily, he did just that. He put down the datapad and approached. “Lean forward so I can deactivate the cuffs,” he instructed. “Try anything and you’ll be heading straight to the smelter.”

D-16 stayed quiet and followed directions. With a pop, the cuffs came off and D-16 felt his systems come back online. The mech backed up and crossed his arms over his blocky chest.

“Listen up, ‘cause I’ll only say this once,” he said. “‘Bout five days ago, you were put on trial for inciting civil disorder, aiding and abetting a criminal and murder in the first degree. You were found guilty on all three charges and sentenced to execution.”

D-16’s face scrunched up in confusion. “What’s trial?” he asked. 

The mech sighed. “I keep forgetting how sheltered you disposables are. Forget it! All you need to know is you were in trouble for killing your supervisor, but some very powerful people figured they could make a profit off you. So congrats, you’re a gladiator now.”

D-16 wasn’t sure what a gladiator was either, but he didn’t like the cold tone with which it was spoken. The mech began writing on the datapad, walking towards the door as he did so. “Stay here,” he commanded. “I’ll be back later to get you.”

The mech stopped in front of the door, looking back. “My name’s Sledge by the way. Welcome to the Pits of Kaon.”

 _Gladiator_. D-16 soon learned the significance of that word. He stood beside Sledge, who he’d learned was the arena’s manager, watching two mechs tear at each other before a roaring crowd. 

“You’re next,” Sledge told him. D-16 clutched his blade tighter. He was one of the lead up matches. It was his first match and a fight against another newcomer. 

The red tanker swung his flail. And with that well-timed attack, hit the other mech in the helm, smashing his faceplates and cranial casing to a pulpy mess. The mech crashed to the ground, his fall silenced by the screams of the crowd. 

_It was his turn_

D-16 stepped into the arena. The ground was covered in energon and the scattered limbs and parts of previous combatants. Only those in the head match got the dignity of a clean killing floor. 

From the other side of the arena came a black hauler. He held a mace. A horn blare indicated the start of the match. The hauler jumped forward, hoping to catch the other off guard with a jab. D-16 blocked it clumsily, stumbling back from the power of the strike. His pede landed on the remnants of a brain module. It was crushed beneath him with a wet squelch and D-16 had to force back a gag.

In that moment of distraction, D-16’s opponent attacked. The hit to the face was agonizing. The mace sailed into his cheek and D-16 nearly tumbled down from the shock of it. Something separated from his faceplates and flew into the air. He could feel rivets of liquid pouring down his face. 

The hauler went for a downward blow, aiming for his shoulder. D-16 blocked again. It went on like that: strike, block, strike, block, strike, block. 

D-16 ducked an attack. As he did, he caught a glance of Sledge. He was frowning.

“Lead up matches should never take long,” Sledge had told him. “Customers are here to watch death, not strategy. They only want that in the head match.”

D-16 parried another blow. It threw the hauler off balance. He took his chance and swung the blade. It hit his opponent in the side, nearly cleaving him in half. The hauler fell dead, leaving D-16 to survey his handiwork. The crowd cheered, but D-16 felt no joy. All the gladiators were low caste, mostly laborers. He pressed a servo to his cheek and felt missing and splintered metal sticky with energon. 

The hauler looked to have a similar alt to him. They were brothers, but they slaughtered each other for the amusement of others.

D-16 heard those who fought to buy their lives join in as they beat the drum. 

He fought more and more matches, and with them came benefits. Extra energon, a small allowance of shanix, his own quarters and a longer leash. D-16 was allowed to venture into the city of Kaon in his free time. 

There, the first thing he bought after orbital cycles of saving was a low-scale linguistics program to learn how to read. After that he spent his money on book after book. He was starved for knowledge, desperate for even the smallest scraps of it. He read myths, scientific articles, historical accounts, religious texts, various fictional works, poetry, biographies and autobiographies. 

It somehow made the killing bearable. Another benefit of the matches was the notoriety. Crowds knew him by sight and looked forward to his fights. D-16 attributed this as the reason Sledge came into his quarters, clutching his datapad.

“Bosses want you in the head matches,” he said curtly. “You need a name.”

“A name?”

Sledge rolled his optics. “Name, designation, whatever you wanna call it. The audience has got to have something to scream and they’re sure as pit not going to yell D-whatever your number is, so pick a name.” 

D-16 thought, and immediately, an idea came to him. He’d recently got his servos on a datapad telling the story of the Thirteen and their triumph over Unicron. It was enthralling, and each prime was awe-inspiring in their own right. Still, one Prime stood above the rest in his optics. The Prime that displayed the most power and tenacity with a lust for victory.

“Megatronus,” he told Sledge.

The manager gave him a flat look. “You got big bearings, calling yourself that.” He wrote something down. “Megatronus it is.” 

Like a ghost, Terminus’s words floated into Megatronus’s processor.

“You don’t live as long as I have while being disposable.”

And as he fought in the head match, ripping his opponent to shreds on a clean killing floor, the crowding chanting his name, Megatronus knew this to be true.

Centuries passed while Megatronus fought and read and learned, honing his skills in Kaon’s pits. Every life he took bought him fame and glory, earning himself the moniker, The Terror of Kaon. More importantly, it made him a mech whose life was seen, and whose potential death would be acknowledged. 

His strength won him the respect of his fellow gladiators, but only one earned it in return from Megatronus. 

The mech was tall and lithe, dark in color with a mask to cover his faceplates. The announcer introduced him as Soundwave. 

The start signaled and both mechs began circling, surveying. Megatronus was the first to attack, taking an experimental swipe at his opponent’s side. Soundwave easily side stepped then used his own short blade to force Megatronus back.

Megatronus nearly laughed out loud. The length of the blade was comical, and really, what were the arena masters thinking, pitting him against this mech. He was probably two entire weight classes above Soundwave. Victory would be effortless. 

Megatronus dodged a blow and whirled around, using the momentum to strengthen the swing of the sword. The power of it would break through any defense the small mech could manage in the little time he was afforded.

But to Megatronus’s shock and amazement, Soundwave brought his blade up and blocked the hit.

Their blades clashed with a spray of sparks and Soundwaves’s stance remained steady.

Their weapons broke apart and Soundwave began a barrage of attacks, hitting so fast and with so much force, Megatronus could only block. The audience went wild.

That went on for a frankly incredible amount of time. Megatronus marveled at the stamina, speed and strength of his seemingly frail opponent. Soundwave’s “comically” short blade slid past his defenses, cutting into the soft mesh tucked into his shoulder joint. 

Megatronus hissed in pain. The blade hit him twice more, both times in the sensitive mesh of a joint. Ignoring the pain, Megatronus honed in on Soundwave’s movements, picking them apart until he found an out, an opening. He blocked a downward slice and threw out his pede in a kick. It hit Soundwave in the lower abdomen, making him curl inward with pain.

Megatronus took the opportunity and swung his sword at the mech’s neck cabling. Soundwave continued to impress him, bringing up the blade in defense.

It shattered on impact, leaving Soundwave bare-servoed. 

Without a second thought, Megatronus dropped his own weapon and surged forward to continue the fight. Their servos met in a crash as they grappled, each trying to overpower the other.

Soundwave was strong, but Megatronus was stronger. We wrenched a fist away from Soundwave’s grip, holding him still by the shoulder with the other servo. He pulled his arm back then smashed his fist into the side of Soundwave’s helm. It sent him slamming into the ground where he lay, unmoving. 

The masses roared their approval, calling for death in the same breath. Megatronus didn’t pick up the sword. Instead, he ignored the glare of Sledge’s disapproval and stared into the VIP box he knew the arena masters sat.

For the first and only time in his career as a gladiator, Megatronus refused to kill. It bought him his most loyal and valuable friend.

The night he realized he could use his platform to end what he despised most was the night Terminus’s fate wouldn’t leave him alone. He was here on the surface, while Terminus had died a gruesome death. What had become of his friend’s body? The grim thought refused to leave.

He knew Sledge wouldn’t bother to find out, so he asked a favor from Soundwave. The mech was eerily good at uncovering information. 

Two weeks went by and Soundwave came back, not with information about Terminus but about the entire mining operation.

“Cave-in,” his monotone voice explained. “The entire cave system. Most likely due to ignored safety regulations and excess tunneling. It’s been closed off. No rescue or recovery effort was made.” Duty fulfilled, Soundwave left, leaving Megatronus feeling numb.

The rules were put in place to keep everyone safe and functioning. That was what had been said. And yet the upper caste ignored the rules at the lower caste's expense for a greater profit. 

So many of his brothers left to die and rot in the dark. The numbness bled into anger, anger that made him think with frightening clarity. 

His abandoned brothers joined the rhythm.

Millennia passed and with them, Megatronus’s winning streak continued. His fame brought fortunes to the arena, and using that fame he began to write, he began to speak. He published essays under an alias. It was a way to get his ideas out without the reader attaching any preconceived notions to them based on Megatronus’s profession and caste. 

The speeches started out as a few words after a match: thanks to the audience and arena masters- pleasantries. They morphed over time, growing longer, changing into references to the horrors of the sport. He took it farther then- thinly veiled jabs at the government that turned into outright condemnations of the caste system.

In the audience he saw disbelief, discomfort, disdain, outrage, but he also saw agreement.

He knew his rhetoric put him in no danger. Even if government officials wanted him to disappear, it was like Sledge had said. “Some very powerful people figured they could make a profit off you.” Megatronus doubted the arena masters would give that up soon.

So he continued. He did it after every match. He talked to the other gladiators and mechs outside the arena. He spoke with fans, opposers, kindred spirits, politicians, activists. 

And that was how he met Orion Pax. He was a fan that heard his words and wanted to learn more, even better, wanted to act. The mech was small and delicate like those he despised, but gentle in a way Megatronus had never experienced. 

Orion became his partner, his closest confidant. When they talked, it was wonderful. His presence was warm and familiar- a comfort. 

It was like the sensation he got from Terminus, but completely different. They didn’t seek each other out in the desperation of their situation, but rather in simple mutual respect and affection. 

The day Orion gifted him with a high tier linguistics program was ingrained into his spark. It was a beautiful gift that absolved Megatronus from having to read a text many times to understand every word. 

They spent the days growing and advocating for their cause and the nights tangled together in bliss. 

The night Orion was not with him, the same night Sledge told him the arena masters wanted to see him, Megatronus knew his insurgence had outweighed his value. Sledge led him out of the arena and they journeyed out into the bowels of Kaon. 

They ended up at a secluded warehouse in the old shipping district. 

_Perfect._

They went inside and waiting for them were ten guards and the arena masters, a group of twenty-two. All twelve of the arena masters were lightweight upper caste mechs.

“Hello, Megatronus,” their leader greeted.

Megatronus nodded.

“You’ve served faithfully in the arena for almost thirty thousand years, bringing it the recognition it deserves.” She paused, giving Megatronus an unnerving smile.

“Recently you’ve shown interest in...Politics. For reasons you probably know, the arena can no longer be associated with you. We’ve called you here to inform you that you’re done with your sentence and are free to pursue a career.”

 _Sentence_? Was that what his slavers were calling the time they forced him to murder for his own life? Was that what justice was now? 

The leader stopped talking, clearly pleased with her little speech. Megatronus growled. 

No one was free to leave the arena. They would fix his match, kill him unfairly. He’d seen it before. 

They were telling him these lies to pacify him, coaxing him to lap up poison from their palms. He wouldn’t have it.

That night he slaughtered all of them. Ten guards, twelve arena masters and a cowering Sledge- the mech with that obnoxious orange plating who enforced his leaders’ depravity for a profit. 

Megatronus loaded the bodies into storage crates, carefully sealing them as we went. He knew this area, knew the laborers who worked here. The warehouse was due to be demolished by week’s end. 

He left feeling joy at his accomplishment. Except for Sledge, he didn’t know their names, but that made it better. Let them know how it felt to die and rot, nameless in the dark.

Megatronus took control of the arena with no one except the other gladiators being the wiser. Orion was suspicious, but Megatronus soothed his worry with a kiss and an admission.

“I think I’d like to enter politics, officially that is.”

“Is that why you’ve been so busy?” Orion asked.

“Yes.” It was only a partial lie. Balancing running a gladiatorial arena turned secret militia and a burgeoning political career was no easy feat.

“I want to change my name, something to better suit the political arena rather than the gladiatorial one.” With that statement, Megatron was born.

He and Orion excelled in the political ring. They played the games, jumped the barriers and held their ground. And through all of it, Megatron felt the heavy weight of his lie. But what else could he do? 

Orion was an idealist, a pacifist, a true gentle and loyal spark. He wouldn’t burden his lover with the horrors of reality. Because what was love if not the need to protect your loved-ones from the cruelties the more powerful would inflict?

He’d learned it from the only true friends he had before Orion: Terminus and Soundwave. 

It made Orion’s betrayal that much harder to accept. Orion talking to the senate in Megatron’s place and taking what he’d deserved: The Matrix, the role of Prime. And worse, the Matrix took him, molding sweet, clever Orion into a senate dog, ready to inflict the cruelties Megatron had once sought to protect Orion from.

No, this wasn’t Orion Pax anymore. It was Optimus Prime, and Orion was beating the drums.

There in the aftermath, Megatron joined the deafening din of the war drums.

Now, millions of years later, he stood on the command deck, servos clenched and cursing himself. Orion had come back, loyal and sweet as he remembered in Prime’s body. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was his Conjunx had returned to him and they’d reunited in that beautiful, complete way only lovers could.

That was over. Orion was Optimus, and Megatron wasn't sure he could separate the two as clearly as he had in the past. He didn’t know how much of Orion was Optimus and how much of Optimus was Orion. Even if they were the same he’d lost the purest version of Orion, doomed to the drums. 

He could hear them vividly: his brothers and friends that started the beat. The mechs he’d killed, the ones Optimus had killed, everyone they’d sent into battle to die adding to the cadence. 

So no, he couldn’t end the war. The sound of war drums was too loud.

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback is welcome and enjoyed! Hope you enjoyed the read!


End file.
